Garden of Evil (26 page)

The patrol boat, a 41-foot cutter, drew alongside. I held my breath. DeWitt had slipped into his navy blazer. He waved and picked up a battery-powered hailer.

“Ahoy, lieutenant!” His voice boomed across the water. “Sandy DeWitt here! How goes it, protecting our borders?”

I stared imploringly toward the uniformed men on the cutter's deck.

“Sorry, sir, didn't recognize your vessel at first. You haven't seen a leaky boatload of Haitians, have you?”

“Not yet. We'll be on the horn to you if we do.”

“Thank you, sir. Carry on.” The friendly guardsman saluted and waved. The cutter pulled to port, then into a 90-degree turn, its wake trailing like a rooster tail in the water.

Sandy waved back, smiling.

“Listen to me,” I said urgently. “This is serious. Can you—”

“Melody?” Keppie interrupted. “Joey doesn't look so good.” She stepped gracefully out on deck, purse in hand. “You better have a look at Mm.”

“Nothing to worry about,” DeWitt called after me, as I flew down the spiral staircase to the stateroom. “It was just routine. They know me…. Seeing the Coast Guard upset Melody,” he said, turning to Keppie.

Joey sat whimpering on the bed, legs spraddled in front of him, hands clutching his throat.

“Are you all right, honey? What's the matter?” 1 gently pulled his hands away and gasped. A scratch stretched ear to ear, the skin barely broken by the tip of a razor-sharp knife. A warning, to show what she could and would do.

I scrambled to the porthole to see our last hope of rescue vanish on the horizon.

T
HE PUSH OF A BUTTON RAISED A DINNER TABLE
out on deck, as a crescent moon climbed the sky. We were anchored in forty feet of water about a mile offshore. Stars shone clear and bright as our hair ruffled in the sultry summer breeze and candles flickered behind the protective glass of hurricane lanterns.

My heart and stomach ached. I filled a plate with hors d'oeuvres for Joey—mushroom quiche, lobster in crispy phyllo triangles, miniature Beef Wellington in puff pastry—took it down, found him asleep, left it, and went back up on deck.

The captain served, then joined us at the exquisitely appointed table, with bone china, elegant silver service, crystal champagne glasses, and Dom Perignon on ice. Salad, a main course of Chateaubriand, then crème brûlée, its satiny heart hidden beneath a sweet crisp crust.

I had no appetite. I had trouble swallowing, drank some wine, then wanted more. I resisted the sudden desire to drown my fear and stress. Blood would be shed tonight. I had to keep my senses if I didn't want it to include mine.

My panic escalated as Keppie prattled about cruising the remote islands of the Bahamas and the Caribbean. No one would search for her there, I thought.

The predators grew more amorous; he sensuously sucked crème brûlée from her fingers, then her lips. Their foreplay did not go unnoticed by Rudy, who got into the spirit of things and fondled my knee under the table.

Keppie discarded her blouse as she and Sandy DeWitt merged into a single lounge chair. Silver moonlight glinted off her bare breasts. Their laughter subsided into more intimate sounds, and I knew how this night would end.

“No, no,” I heard him protest good-humoredly at one point. “No way can we head out to the islands tonight. We'll be back in port by dawn. We still have plenty of time.”

The captain and I remained at the table. As Sandy tossed his shirt aside, I removed Rudy's hand from my thigh and gripped it tightly. “You have to stop them,” I whispered urgently. “She's dangerous. She's a killer. You—”

He held up one hand like a bored traffic cop who has heard it all. “I know you're jealous,” he said earnestly. “You have to learn to live with it.”

“Shit. Listen to me. Go call the police, the Coast Guard, now.”

“The Coast Guard was here.” He spoke with the exaggerated patience of a doctor who deals with the deranged. “Why didn't you say something then?”

“Because she would have killed Joey.”

He rolled his eyes skyward as if to lament being stuck with the crazy one. “Keppie told us about your problems, especially when you drink. Did you take your medication?”

“Oh, for God's sake,” I muttered. “You've heard of the Kiss-Me Killer. That's her!”

“Yes, and I am Carlos the Jackal.”

He thrust his hand under my blouse and squeezed my breast hard, as though his rude advance might dispel my madness and hallucinations.

I pushed him away. “Somebody's going to die tonight!” I whispered.

A shadow appeared in the doorway. Rudy cursed under his breath and lurched to his feet, breathing hard.

“Mommy?” Joey stood there, sleepy-eyed.

“It's me, honey, Britt.” He ran to me.

“I had a bad dream,” he said, clinging to me. “I woke up and you weren't there.”

“I'm here now.”

“The bad angels came out of the woods….”

I held him and stroked his hair.

“Let's take a walk.” I steered him briskly away from the lounge, where Keppie straddled Sanford Rutherford DeWitt in a precoital embrace.

Rudy discreetly disappeared below deck as Joey and I walked around the side of the yacht, out of sight.

I heard intimate laughter and a moan of pleasure, aware of what would follow. We stood at the starboard rail, staring at the shoreline. Night had fallen. The sky was a diamond-studded vault overhead. We had cruised south from Palm Beach. The lights of what I thought might be the Hollywood Beach Hotel glimmered in the distance. So near, yet so far. Then, across the water, carried by sea breezes, came soft, gently musical sounds. Straining my eyes in the darkness, I saw nothing. But I heard it. I knew it was there. And I knew what it meant. I had to seize our last slim chance. Now or never. I snatched a seat cushion from a deck chair and stepped over the rail. I braced myself, reached back across, and swept him up in my arms.

“I love you, Joey,” I whispered, clinging to the railing with one hand. “Don't be afraid. I'll take care of you.” Holding him tight, I let go and jumped.

We hit the water feet first, down, down, as though we would never stop. I let him go for a moment to try to stop our descent, then fought my way to the surface, groping
wildly for him. He surfaced, choking and sputtering, a few feet away. Trusting and brave, he never cried out.

“Hold on to me,” I told him. “No, no, not like that.” He thrashed in panic, lunging at my neck with a death grip, pulling us both under.

I held him away from me, treading water. “You have to help me, Joey,” I gasped, spitting out seawater. “You have to kick and paddle. We have to get away.”

He clung to my belt as I tried to get my bearings. The cushion bobbed nearby. I caught it and tried to slide it under him like a belly board. “Hold on,” I said; “now, kick, kick.” We swam for our lives, his hand on my shoulder, toward the sounds I had heard, toward shore. I stopped to catch my breath and glance back at the
Playtime.
No hint of alarm.

Desperately searching the black water, I saw nothing but darkness, unable even to discern where heaven and the sea met. Had I been hallucinating? I was a strong swimmer, but when I stopped to rest and tread water, I heard only the sea. The shoreline seemed no closer as the current swept us north. The lights of the
Playtime
were barely visible in the distance. Almost imperceptibly, the wind had begun to pick up speed and the waves became more choppy.

Joey began to choke and gag. “Spit it out, spit it out,” I gasped. We had both swallowed too much seawater already. I swam toward shore again as powerfully as I could. When I had to stop once more to catch my breath, we seemed no closer. I remembered the dead Cubans, eight men and women who died of hypothermia in these same offshore waters when their small craft capsized, but that was December when water temperatures were in the 50s. Tonight the sea was a warm bath with more frightening prospects. Tiger sharks and hammerheads frequent these heated waters. Weeks earlier a shark had killed a small boy, bitten him in two, as he played in full sight of his parents in the shallow surf off Vero Beach.

I wanted to weep but could not spare the strength. Should we have remained aboard, safe at least for the moment? Then I remembered the Texas Death Row escapee and Keppie's words. He died trying, on his own terms, not when his captors decided it was time.

But Joey, I thought, gasping, eyes burning. How unfair to him. From time to time, I rolled over to float on my back. Each time he panicked because he had to readjust his grip on me. The night was beautiful. We could see the constellations. A thunderstorm rumbled and lightning flashed to the east, far out at sea, its energy kicking up the surface of the water. I hoped to God it wouldn't come our way. Mechanically, I swam, treaded water, and listened, swam, floated, and listened, swam, treaded water. Could I keep us afloat till dawn? I didn't think so. Even if we survived the night, no one was searching. Who would find us?

The threatening thunderstorm blew by to the south. I thought of my mother, McDonald, Lottie, and Mrs. Goldstein. Would anyone ever know what happened to me? If our bodies were found, they would think we were refugees, lost at sea. Would they examine the labels in our clothes and realize they were purchased days earlier in Palm Beach? My fingerprints were on file, but how would they ever identify Joey?

My throat burned and my sinuses seemed about to explode. Joey was sputtering, swallowing more water. To my horror I found that the cushion had lost its buoyancy. Waterlogged like us, it was about to sink. Exhausted, strength spent, my entire body ached. I couldn't stay afloat much longer. Where were they, the voices I had heard? A wave broke over our heads. Blinded, choking, and gagging on saltwater, I opened my eyes and there he was. Still with me after all.
Estamos juntos.
My father's naked skin glistened in the waves, his open arms beckoning. I struck out toward him, but he was gone. Then like an answered prayer, I heard them again, the gentle sound of voices
speaking softly in patois, Haitian boat people, illegal aliens in a quest for freedom, trying like us to survive in a sea of night.

Their boat creaked in the water close by as I floundered. “Help us,” I choked, spitting out water. “Please.”

A woman cried out in fear and dismay. Frightened voices began to babble.

“Help,” Joey cried out.

A weak flashlight beam splashed onto the water near us. “Here!” I begged weakly. “Here.”

Then the light, weak as it was, found us. Hushed discussions, arguments, angry, frightened debate followed. At the end, they did not leave us. They tried to help. Their leaky, overloaded boat was too crowded to take us both aboard. Two people were already bailing with rusted pails. But a woman did reach out and drag Joey in, amid protests from her companions.

“Mommy! Mommy!” he cried weakly. Somebody threw me a line, a frayed rope to which I clung.

After more than an hour, my feet touched bottom. Eyes watering, I thanked God. Men, women, and children leaped from the rickety wooden vessel, splashed ashore, fled up a sandy beach, and scattered into the darkness. I staggered several steps and collapsed sobbing, slumped in the shallows.

“Britt!” Joey cried.

I crawled forward, onto the sand where they had left him. Gazing back at the dark sea and limitless horizon, I realized with awe what a miracle it was that we were alive. Mind reeling, I stared in disbelief at the lights, the familiar skyline. We had landed at the southernmost tip of Miami Beach. I was home, home at last! Overcome by relief and exhaustion, I gave in to the urge to rest. Only for a moment, I thought, as Joey curled up on the soft sand beside me.

Powerful lights in my eyes woke me. “They're alive!” somebody shouted. “Call rescue and INS!”

Two burly Miami Beach cops were dragging the rickety boat out of the surf up onto the beach.
“¿De donde eres?
Where are you from?” demanded the one shining the light into my eyes.
“¿De donde eres?”

I blinked up at him, disoriented.
“The Miami News,”
I said.

“W
E'RE SAFE NOW
,” I T
OLD
J
OEY IN THE AMBULANCE
. “These people will take care of us.”

He struggled when we were separated in the emergency room. “No! No! Stay with me, Britt! Stay with me!”

I hugged him and kissed his cheek. “It's all right,” I said. “It's just for a little while. I'll be close by. They just want to make sure we're okay.” I appealed to a nurse.

“He's been through so much,” I said. “Please…”

She smiled. “Don't worry. We'll take good care of him.”

 

“How is she? Where is she?”

I heard McDonald's voice. Was he a dream? No, he was real, standing over me, lean and long-legged, strong jaw, cleft chin, his silvery blue eyes filled with concern.

“Hey, Brenda Starr.”

I reached out for him, aware I looked awful, eyes red, lips swollen, wearing a paper gown they gave me in the emergency room. He didn't seem to notice.

“I thought I'd never see you again,” I croaked, my voice raspy, throat raw from swallowing seawater. I wept as we hugged. “You were right. I'm so sorry, so sorry.”

He shook his head and held my face tenderly in his
hands. He looked exhausted, tears in his eyes. “I was wrong not to stop you,” he said. “I never should have let you do it.”

“But I wouldn't listen….”

“I should have kidnapped you myself.” He held me, stroked my hair, kissing my forehead. I was home at last.

“Joey,” I murmured against his shoulder. “The little boy; we have to call his mother. You won't believe who the killer is. I know her name. I know where she is.”

Urgent voices and sounds, the crackle and static of police radios, came from the other side of the curtain. “I hate to do this,” McDonald said, “but I have to leave you for a while now. The detectives need to talk to you right away. Later.” He gently kissed my lips. “Welcome home, love.”

“I tried so hard to get back to you,” I said tearfully.

“Well, you sure took your time.” He winked, our eyes connected, and he was gone.

Ojeda and Simmons, two prosecutors, and some other cops were already there. I filled them in fast, between tears and hugs from my mother and Lottie, who arrived minutes later, followed by Fred Douglas, my editor, and Mark Seybold, the paper's lawyer.

The detectives worked fast, hoping to save DeWitt. Efforts to raise the
Playtime
by radio and cell phone failed. Because the yacht was equipped with multichannel radio and satellite television and Keppie was a news junkie, the paper agreed to temporarily withhold the news that we had been found. That gave police and the Coast Guard time to launch an intense air and sea search. If she believed we'd drowned, she would not alter her plans, vague though they were.

When I asked to see Joey, Ojeda said the Division of Children and Family Services was taking him into protective custody until his mother arrived.

“No,” I objected. “I can't let strangers take him away. It's not—”

“That's how the system is set up,” Ojeda said. “Work with us here, Britt.”

“Well, then, I have to see him, to explain and say goodbye,” I insisted.

A caseworker had already left the hospital with him, they said.

I burst into bitter tears. “He'll think I abandoned him,” I grieved. “He saw his father murdered. He was taken by strangers. How could you let strangers take him again?”

“There was no alternative. Now let's focus, we're working against time,” the detective said impatiently. “Nothing about this whole thing has been easy on anybody.”

“Well, where the hell were you?” I demanded of Ojeda. “You promised nothing would go wrong! Why did you let any of this happen?”

“Shit happens,” he said. “We don't have time to go into that now. You need to help us.”

He was right. I wanted nothing more than to see them stop Keppie.

Debriefing for hours, they bombarded me, repeating the same questions over and over.

 

They took me home that afternoon. The T-Bird was being held as evidence. Still numb, I was greeted by Mrs. Goldstein with open arms, chicken soup, and chocolate chip cookies. Bitsy was beside herself. Even Billy Boots abandoned his usual aloof feline demeanor and came running, tail straight up. Thrilled to see them, to be surrounded by things familiar, and to be alone at last, I wanted to kiss the floor. My bed and soft comforter beckoned, but I showered and changed to drive a borrowed car to police headquarters to make official statements under oath, in the cases in which I had direct knowledge.

Before I did so, flowers arrived from McDonald. The loving card did not say
I told you so.
It moved me, but my thoughts were with Joey. Did he think I had deserted him?

I worked with the police and the Coast Guard, poring
over maps, downloading all I could remember. My notebook was at sea somewhere, still aboard the
Playtime,
along with Joey's Beanie Baby. I could still hear him asking for it on the way to the hospital.

They found the SUV parked where I told them Keppie had left it. But they did not find her, the
Playtime,
or the missing playboy. The Coast Guard search, called off at dusk, resumed at dawn.

 

Joey's mother would arrive in Miami the following afternoon. Detectives and a child psychologist had spoken with him. He did well for someone so young, they said, corroborating much of what I had told them.

He and his mother were to be reunited in the chief's office, where pictures would be taken. City officials like to take pictures at positive events, they are so rare. I asked to be present.

I arrived early. Joey ran to me, the only familiar face in the room. “Britt! Britt!” he called and climbed gleefully into my lap. I held him tight.

“I will always remember you,” I whispered in his ear. “Your mommy is coming to take you home today. I love you, Joey.” No time to say more.

A woman's voice resounded in the corridor. “Where is he? Where is he?”

Joey slid from my lap, eyes wide.

She burst in, a pretty, plumpish bottle blonde.

He stood shyly for a moment, then rushed across the room. “That's my mommy! My mommy!”

“Thank you, Saint Jude,” she cried, sweeping him up in her arms. “Thank you, Saint Jude, for answering my prayers, for bringing back my baby!”

She spun him around, her eyes squeezed shut, expression ecstatic.

“When they didn't call every night like his daddy promised, I knew something was terribly wrong. I was sure Jeffrey had kidnapped him, that I would never see my
baby again, so I prayed to Saint Jude, the help of the hopeless. I knew Saint Jude would bring him back. He saved my baby!”

I watched without a word. There was so much I wanted to say, but she took her son and left. I wanted to run after them, to remind her not to let him ride a bicycle without a helmet, to warn him never to talk to strangers, to make her aware of all the trauma he had suffered, and to tell her what a brave and good child he was.

I didn't. He gazed at me from over her shoulder, her lipstick smeared on his cheek, his brown eyes solemn as they went out the door. That was the last I saw of him.

 

I went back to the office, surprised by my sense of loss. Ignoring the stares, I went to the wire room and stood at a counter, wondering where Keppie was as I leafed through the newspapers published in my absence. I needed to become grounded again, to get back to business.

The planet had continued to spin in my absence. Life in Miami had continued at its usual frenetic pace. There is no business like the news business to make you aware of how insignificant any one individual's pain or tragedy is in the grand scheme of things.

The Marlins lost. Liberty City drug wars killed four. A man burned to death when an irate ex-lover torched his apartment. Robbers killed an unidentified woman on the street. Police cars racing to a call startled a motorist who assumed they were chasing him. He panicked, pulled over, leaped out, and ran. He made it safely across two lanes. A semi nailed him in the third.

Our justice team of reporters had finally made the front page with the investigative piece they had worked on for months, a probe into possible bribery and jury tampering in a major drug case. A tipster told the reporters and the FBI that the jury foreman had received a quarter of a million dollars to guarantee no conviction, with a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus for acquittal. The accused drug
kingpin had been found not guilty. The jury foreman spent lavishly after the trial, despite a modest salary. His former girlfriend admitted he had brought the cash home in a satchel, saying it was payment for his work. A grand jury was now calling in his fellow jurors for testimony. I turned the page. Wait a minute. I went back to the story. Didn't Althea serve on that jury?

I carried the papers back to my desk. My messages included several from her, some from the day I left. That seemed so long ago. The most recent was marked
URGENT:
I pray you are all right and come home safe, Britt. I know why now. I know the motive. Please call me.

Was her sudden revelation linked to the investigation? But how? I scanned the newsroom for members of the investigative team. None in sight. I dialed Althea's number. No answer. For a woman who wanted help, she was as difficult to reach as ever.

I continued thumbing through the papers, right up until that morning's final. Local section brieflys included a three-year-old drowned in the family pool, new drug death statistics from the medical examiner, and the name of the woman killed two days earlier in a street robbery.

The lines leaped off the page as though in bold-faced type.

I reread it, reaching instinctively for the telephone to redial her number.

It rang, but I knew she wouldn't be there. Ever.

I called her daughter.

“Jamie, this is Britt, from the News. I just saw the story. What happened?”

“Are you all right?” She sounded bewildered. “I didn't know you were back.”

“What happened?”

“We don't know.” Her voice broke.

“What happened?” I demanded, my voice rising.

“The other reporters were already here,” she said.

“What other reporters?”

“From your paper.” She sobbed.

So did I.

I washed my face in the ladies' room and looked for Fred. His office was empty.

“I need to talk to him, it's important,” I told Bobby Tubbs at the city desk. “Where is he?”

“In a meeting with the justice team,” he said. “Looks like somebody murdered a major witness in their bribery case. Glad you're back, Britt.”

I crashed the meeting. An investigative reporter had called Althea days earlier. She had acknowledged being the last holdout for guilty during deliberations. The foreman's high-pressure persuasion had changed the guilty votes of several other jurors, and he had finally talked her into making it unanimous. As she and the reporter talked, she had recalled overhearing the foreman's side of a phone call he had made. He had seemed upset that she did, but she didn't think it important at the time. Apparently it was.

The reporters arranged to tape an interview at her home. Althea was not there. An FBI agent's card was in the door, with a note asking her to call him. She did not.

She was already in the morgue, ambushed and shot to death as she left the hospital.

“Looks like she didn't understand the significance of what she overheard, but the suspect apparently thought she did,” said Joe Bloss, the hefty bearded investigative reporter who led the team. “When he heard the FBI was investigating him, he must have thought she tipped them off. He apparently took out a hit on her with a couple of two-bit lowlifes he met in a bar.

“One is talking, and it looks like there may be murder indictments by the end of the week. Helluva story,” he said. “We're running with it tomorrow.”

“Britt?” Fred interrupted. “You knew about these other attempts on Althea Moran's life?”

“Yes. I looked into it, talked to her, went out to her house. I've got a whole file I put together—”

“Then the city desk knew about this?” He scowled, perplexed.

“No. I didn't mention it to the desk. I didn't know…the cops didn't believe her and I wasn't sure. Then the Kiss-Me Killer story broke and I got sidetracked.”

“Too bad,” Fred said gravely. “We've had the jury list for weeks. We discussed it at news meetings. Her name would have rung a bell.”

I saw the looks they exchanged.

“You know it's standard policy for reporters to keep the desk informed of everything they're working on,” Fred said, his eyes cold.

“Nobody knows that better than I do—now.” I swallowed hard. “I'm sorry.”

 

I blamed everybody, myself the most, then the police, Althea's relatives, even the World War II vet with rheumy eyes and a thirst for cheap wine, spinning lies about killing enemy soldiers, self-absorbed and totally unaware of how the threads wound in the skein of our actions can disrupt the fabric of a stranger's life. Had it not been for him, I would not have been as skeptical. I had been so absorbed with my own image and chasing the bigger story that I had failed her.

Sanford Rutherford DeWitt was found that afternoon, aboard the
Playtime's
lifeboat, afloat off Walker's Cay in the Bahamas. Naked, he had been shot like the others. A predator himself, he'd been no match for Keppie. She, the yacht, and the captain were still missing.

We broke the story, identifying her to the world at last,
Keppie Lee Hutton, serial killer, the daughter of one of Death Row's most infamous inmates. I attended Althea's funeral that afternoon.